The Actuality In Our Reality
by Bugsyboo1313
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is a 7 year old kid living in the heart of London, and he has the power to jump into any book or piece of writing he comes across, even if he wrote it himself. John Watson lives on the other side of town and has a magic mirror that allows him to do the exact same thing, but he can't control where he'll be taken to. See inside for full summary. Please review. Kidlock
1. Words On Pages

**The Actuality In Our Reality (Chapter 1)**

Words On Pages

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**BBC Sherlock (**_Kidlock**)**_

**Summary: **_Sherlock Holmes is a 7 year old kid living in the heart of London, and he has the power to jump into any book or piece of writing he comes across, even if he wrote it himself. John Watson lives on the other side of town and has a magic mirror that allows him to do the exact same thing, but he can't control where he'll be taken to. When they find their mysterious worlds are linked only for a day, they begin to think it was a coincidence; that they were meant to find each other. How will they solve their problem and see each other more often? But when they try to convince their parents they've met a new friend in their secret, imaginative universes, the adults don't believe them. But after all, what parent has the infinitely imaginative mind of a child? _

**WARNINGS: **None

_***I do not own this fandom or any of the characters. They belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss. This story is written for entertainment purposes only.***_

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_ "You'll find out when you're older."_

Born with a brain to absorb and gain knowledge quicker than most children, Sherlock Holmes had decoded the ethics to how adults were so unhelpful and never gave straight-up answers to questions he asked. He never comprehended why they attempted to use their sweetest voices when addressing their own descendants, or why there was a cabinet downstairs loaded with scrapbooks filled to the edges with photographs of himself as a toddler. He personally though the obsessive behavior was excessive.

The overload of actions adults did was a complete mystery to him; why they made him eat his vegetables, why they tucked him into bed and kissed him goodnight, why he wasn't allowed to stay up late in the evenings, and so on. It just wasn't fair! His older brother Mycroft was allowed to break the household rules, so why couldn't he?

Because he only was a seven-year-old.

The one thing he applauded and praised his parents for was their constant effort to make sure Sherlock went to school. Sherlock loved school. Most children thought he was insane, but he wasn't going to over an opportunity to become smarter than everyone else in his class. More so, he loved to learn more than anything. The bad thing was he couldn't stand his teacher; she was prissy, dressed in a pink dress every day, and wore vibrant red lipstick that clashed with her outfit. Her classroom rules were absurd, but the only best part about her was that she rarely gave homework during the week.

This was a considerable advantage for Sherlock. No homework meant an added amount of time to pull a book off a shelf in his room and read. In his opinion, whoever invented books was a genius. Normal kids played on the playground or had racecars and what not, but Sherlock saw the chance to open a good volume and store important facts in his scientific mind. He had rows upon rows of books stacked in his bedroom, some read multiple times and others never touched, their bindings not being bent a single time and their pages fresh with the glorious new book scent. The start of each new day meant a new adventure to be explored; a new atmosphere and another unique style of writing.

Sometimes, if he got immersed in a book for a long period of time, he found himself reliving ancient events of history or being swept off into a distant land filled with endless surprises. The reader could block out the world around him completely, diving into the smooth pages and painting the new surroundings just from the details in the black words in ink on the white pages.

And sometimes, he felt like he could spread wings and soar through the adventures such curious people went on, believing he was right alongside the main characters.

Today, Sherlock sat at the base of a cherry tree in his backyard, a very thick novel perched in his lap as he studied the past events of World War II. Now that it was summer time, he had the freedom to do whatever pleased him without getting into trouble. The lime colored grass beneath his feet swayed in the breeze, brushing the brunette curls off of his forehead. His eyes were locked on the curves and dashes that made the sentences, skimming over the letters and numbers as his mind easily translated them and he understood the message. An ice cold water bottle brushed against his thigh, leaving a small patch of perspiration on the edge of his formal shorts. They were black and almost knee length while two pockets had been stitched in the sides. For pockets were useful; they could act as a storage unit for spare items such as keys or coins, or they came in handy when it was necessary to sneak food out of the kitchen.

Sherlock also wore a short-sleeved white shirt under a dark blue silk vest. The sleeves of his shirt stuck out under the layer of clothing on top, and the socks covering his feet matched the pure whiteness of the puffy clouds above. His dress shoes were slip-ons, regardless of the fact that he knew perfectly well how to tie shoelaces. He exceeded in every skill possible, all thanks to his books and the availability of information for his greedy hands to clasp.

The sun shone over the back cover of his novel, now resting on his bent knees as the rays poured through the gaps between the leaves growing from the tree above. Just to his right was a wooden swing he loved to rock back and forth on, his legs dangling beneath him as they weren't able to touch the ground. The giant ball of blazing gas far off in space let heat pound the little boy, making sweat droplets line the edges of his sharp, pale cheekbones and suck the spit from the back of his throat.

There was a sudden loud _BANG! _to his left and Sherlock flinched at the ear-splitting gunshot, hopping in his seat yet bringing the book in closer to his nose. But nothing had disturbed the silence around the base of the tree trunk, and he showed no movement that something had disturbed him. His vision took him flying forwards, wind brushing the side of his face like a tornado in the vast space around him.

But there was no gust of wind that smacked him while he sat. Everything was still and steady, but Sherlock was so into his book he had no idea what was going on in the real world. Ahead of him he could just make out the outline of a line of Army troops, but in reality he was staring right at the end of the chapter he was on.

Someone was all the sudden tapping on his left shoe, but the little brother didn't look up to see who it was. Mycroft Holmes even said his sibling's name three times but the younger boy still didn't respond.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft yelled viciously, snapping his fingers loudly in front of the boy's eyebrows. The connection with his novel split immediately, and the younger Holmes brother found himself searching through the stormy eyes of his older sibling.

"Mikey!" The little kid said in a disappointed tone, closing the pages and putting the book on the ground by his hip. "You're disturbing my story!"

"Honestly Sherlock, when will you ever get over using that name?" Mycroft asked. "I refuse and hate to be called by my nickname, you know that." He gave the brunette the gestured eyebrow which signaled as a warning.

"I don't care what you want!" Sherlock hissed, crossing his arms and pouting before the teenager could finish his input. "This is much more entertaining!" He was becoming cross as he pointed to the front cover of the source packed with information on the Second World War. It had most of the flags of the countries that fought in the war scattered across the front.

"Lockie," Mycroft snapped with frustration, stomping his foot so hard he left a shoeprint in the mulch. The smaller boy threw a temper tantrum and rolled his hands into fists so his sibling couldn't witness his anger. The taller teenager stood with his hands on his hips and continued with his excuse for bothering his brother. "Don't think I'm stupid enough to not notice."

Sherlock pretended to ignore Mycroft. After all, he was very clever at making things up to fool others; he did it all the time to his family, particularly his parents. "Mummy and Daddy don't and can't know. You need to control it. You make it so obvious that I -"

"So what?" the seven-year-old argued, sinking farther down on his backside. "It's not like anyone notices."

"Sherlock, you cannot expose your ability like that. Frankly, it's getting worse every day." The curly-haired boy stuck out his bottom lip for a better appearance.

Sherlock Holmes stood up and gathered his precious book in his arms. "But I like going to other worlds. I can do whatever I want," he shot back, puffing out his chest and coming up to Mycroft's waist in height. Nobody could tell him he wasn't able to use his imagination. To him, it was the greatest thing in the universe.

He skipped back to the house while swinging his arms, letting his feet loosely glide with him as his knees almost collided with his chest. He jumped with both feet up the short staircase to the back porch, like a young girl who plays hopscotch. Once the soles of his shoes slammed onto the wooden boards at the top, he saw his puppy lying in the shade under his father's rocking chair. Sherlock rushed over and kneeled down so the pet could lick his face.

"Hello Redbeard!" Sherlock gleefully chuckled, the Irish Settler pounding his paws on the boy's tummy. The human buddy scratched behind the dog's ears, and the animal closed its eyes in pleasure. The brunette rummaged through a bucket full of dog toys and pulled out a tennis ball.

"Redbeard, catch!" he encouraged, throwing the ball up high and in an arch so the puppy could grasp it with his sharp teeth. "Good boy!" While rubbing the dog's back, Sherlock glanced up to find Mycroft staring back at him, so he gave the older snot a glare before saying bye to his best friend. Standing up to go, he pushed the sliding glass door to the back of his home off to the side of and stepped inside swiftly.

His mum was in the kitchen preparing a light salad for lunch, but the adventurer had no interest in the nutritious snack and passed right by. "Sherlock," his mummy called after him, and the son swiveled around on the spot with the cutest expression he could muster.

"Yes?" He hid his book behind his spine and bounced on his toes, smiling, regardless if it was painful for him. Even his head was tilted slightly to the left.

"Where's Mikey? You didn't abandon him again, did you?"

"Mikey has other things he could be doing on his own right now, Mummy. He needs to keep his nose out of my business," he squeaked in a high-pitched tone.

"Sherlock!" she began to yell back, but he had already turned and sprinted off to his bedroom.

He closed the door gently with a ludicrous grin spread over his lips, and now he knew nobody would disturb him. "Now," he said, searching around the messy area for a different book, "where to head off to today?" He spotted his pirate hat and a cardboard sword on the carpet by his chest of model trains. "Aha! Yes! Have at thee, villain!" he said to no one in particular, and his mind brought him the skill to act as a buccaneer sailing the seas of the Atlantic Ocean. He was off in a land of fun, slicing his weapon through the air and spinning in circles to keep himself occupied. He wrapped a red blanket around his shoulders so it acted as a cape, but he had to keep it closed securely with his fingers. He found it easier by tucking it in the collar of his vest so he had both hands free, able to take on his enemy with determination.

"Now, where is it?" he wondered, changing his mood and snapping out of his fantasy to check in all the corners and cracks that were supposedly hidden. But he knew them all too well for the vanishing places to even remotely disappear; he even double checked the moldy corner behind his desk.

He pulled back the dented pillow on his mattress and found what he'd been hunting for. "Gotcha!" he screamed in triumph, holding the treasure map over his head full of curls. Clumsily, he wiped off the surface of his desk with a swift swipe of his arm, carelessly throwing everything onto the floor, including a breakable snow globe. But who cared? Pirates were so much cooler.

He had to use a couple pencil erasers to keep the page flat, but when he could see all the little marks on the parchment, most importantly the ending spot marked with an 'x', he was ready to begin his process.

Feeling the metal connection between his fingers and his brain, Sherlock ran his nails over the composition of the page. It was smooth beneath his touch, except for in the places where he'd drawn on it with waxed crayons.

He could already begin to picture it; roaring waves filled with bubbles and foam, beaches as pale as his skin, and a ship rocking on the ocean with a mast and a wheel that the captain would surely allow him to steer. The warmth was being felt in his veins, and the black emptiness in his glued-shut eyes filled with a dusty yellow color, growing brighter by the second. His feet left the fluffy carpet in his bedroom and were left floating in nothingness, and Sherlock couldn't help but show a raging smile, the one that was so familiar; one kids showed on their faces when they experience rainbow fireworks or chew candy.

Now he knew the first stage of transportation was almost complete. The link between his muscles and the control center of his body strengthened as he lifted his hands from the page. As if they were attached by an invisible string, he used his brilliant mind to lift the image from the parchment so it remained blank. The map was drawn into the air before his face, his eyes still closed, and he rotated 180 degrees to hold the intended place in the larger space of his room. Working like advanced technology, as he was ready to jump into a new world, the spark went through the ends of his fingers and the picture enlarged and flew outwards, covering his bedroom in a layer of magic and leaving his school supplies, closet, bed, and various toys behind.

He knew the skill had clicked and he'd been transferred to his intended target. He knew by the gut-wrenching action in his stomach and the wave of heat that passed over his skeleton before the feeling of living in a real world came back. His feet felt a solid surface beneath them and the blank atmosphere was no longer silent and excluding noises. One exhale through his mouth and he let his soul open out to his own galaxy, dedicated only to him while it prevented anyone else from breaking in.

When he opened his eyes he found himself standing in the entrance of what he called his 'mind palace'. It wasn't really a palace, he just like to claim so because all little children want to grow up in a castle and live in royalty. It was the fairytales that inspired him to think of such a thing.

Sherlock's mind palace was a long hallway filled with golden light, thousands of doors built on either side that led to all different categories of lands. There was no end to the narrow corridor, except for the cut off terminal that was behind him. And he was always required to look over his shoulder before he proceeded any further in his journey of the day, just to be sure the leaving pod was remained there.

Yes, in fact when he turned around, the archway to the only wide open room in his imagination was there. His left hand ran over smooth wallpaper as he ducked under the frame of the opening. To his left was a winding staircase that led up and away; the exit to his reality and the portal back to the boring universe and his hometown of London. He had to ascend four long staircases before reaching the top, a railing bolted to the edge for support, just in case. But Sherlock always loved the feeling after checking that the exit was there of ignoring the steps and swirling away, instead being faced with the challenge of choosing a new world to visit.

He was ready to pick a door. He'd noticed after a few weeks that the places he journeyed to most were closer to the exit, but the ones that hadn't be explored yet were farther away and needed to be tracked down before he could break into their borders. Through the first door on his left he saw a vast forest and a lonely mountain on the edge of a lake, and the one on the right had a castle off in the distance on a sloping hill. A hut was on the boundary of a dark forest, lights on inside and lightning up the crepuscular gloom of dawn.

But he skipped both those doors in the first row. The destination he was heading for was the second entryway on his dominant side, and the well-known upper deck of a pirate ship flew by the tiny window carved into the wood. The skull and crossbones on the pitch-black flag were the definition of excitement for him, and he tightened his costume belt before drawing his sword and straightening up.

Letting his fingers guide his sensation for him, he grasped the silver door handle and pushed hard, sliding gracefully into the novel at his touch. His heart went on a high-speed chase, but the incomplete feeling of enchantment was blocked when the passage between planet earth and his personal imaginative world was swallowed in a daze behind him.

He'd jumped into someone else's shoes, and when Sherlock traveled into the settings in the text of books, nothing could stop him. What were other peoples' stories and books, those were his actual reality. Because he could enter any piece of writing he pleased to and experience a creation so many kids, teenagers, and adults wished they could explore.

And that was the most realistic thing he believed was capable of being possible.


	2. Discombobulated

**The Actuality In Our Reality (Chapter 2)**

Discombobulated

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Come on, to Sherlock, nothing could be better than roaming the seas with pirates. The door in his mind palace that led to the ancient sandy beaches had a hook on the opposite side, a storage place to hold his favorite black pirate hat with a skull and cross bones stitches to the front that rested on his curly head. After all, his mind could conjure up enough detail to supply wind to his beloved place, and if he lost his hat on his own, he couldn't come up with a logical explanation to lie to his parents about. When in fact his real human body was just standing in his room at home, his second imaginative figure skipped around on brand new adventures. When he lost something, it simply disappeared from his body back in his room and never returned till he found it.

That's why he needed to ask his parents to buy loads of pencils for school all the time, because he would carry them in his pocket and would fall out when he bent over to pick things up in his memory. Depending on his mood, sometimes he would actually accompany buccaneers on their voyage, or he would search for shells in the sand or take his sweet time on a refreshing walk.

Today, he felt like skipping the ship that sailed across the sea and instead walked over the bumpy surface of the sand dunes. Along the way, he would bend over and collect anything he found to be interesting enough to keep. I mean, what was the point in owning a stack of random objects that had no valuable purpose?

He once found a broken pottery bowl, assuming it had washed up on the shore from a vicious storm one night. He'd also found sea glass and a couple pirate coins before, having to keep them hidden in his closet back home so his mum didn't accidentally throw them away.

His feet strode through a group of palm trees bunched together about a dozen yards from the ocean's first waves. A brilliant idea popped into his head and he sprinted a little ways over to the water, stopping about halfway there and sinking into the yellow blanket on his knees. He gathered a large chunk of sand into his bent arms, having seen kids make sand castles all the time. He'd never made one himself, being all antisocial in public places, but when he was alone, he could do whatever he pleased. Maybe it would just solve all his problems if he remained in his own world everyday, but he had a family who cared about him and loved him. He also knew that kid imaginations and fake galaxies never lasted for more than eight years.

It was all true.

He knew it was going to fade away soon, and that he'd have to leave behind his crazy ability to give it up for boring reality. It sucked being a kid just as much as it was glorious, because once his brain was fully developed to think like an older person, he realized just how much he would have to sacrifice to grow up.

But now was not the right situation to discuss such matters. He had to enjoy the freedom while the final moments counted down, and right now he was going to by building his first sand castle.

His beginning tower was a little unstable, but as he progressed farther on he got better with his shaky hands and dug a hole deep enough to make water appear. He dug a trench around the castle base, and a bridge led into an arched opening to a large box shape of the main building.

The waves were blowing up to rush over and fall into his moat, and the third time it swept over the whole castle tumbled down into a large heap. He supposed he was supposed to be upset about it, but Sherlock just smiled and assumed that happened to everybody. He was getting sick of forming the walls anyways and decided to move on, walking back through the gap in the trees to be lonesome once more.

He got ten minutes down the road when he froze on the spot, catching something unfamiliar in his vision. Something or someone had moved, but when Sherlock saw it right on he both went into shock and looked confused.

For a shorter boy of his age was standing forty feet away, stocky in build with bright blue irises and flat blonde hair pressed against the top of his skull.


End file.
